


The New Guy

by AuthorToBeNamedLater



Series: Keeping Up With The Raptors [24]
Category: Hockey RPF, No Fandom, Original Work, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, F/M, Gen, Hockey, Humor, NHL RPF, Original Fiction, Ottawa Senators, Raptors, Seattle, Sports, Trade Deadline, Vancouver Canucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorToBeNamedLater/pseuds/AuthorToBeNamedLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nik Bakstrom gets uprooted from Ottawa to Seattle. Another one of my original-but-enough-real-life-references-to-qualify-as-RPF stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Niklas Bakstrom is my own creation despite his having the same name as two other real players. I intend to make much humor out of this later on.
> 
> Had there been no lockout last season, I imagine the trade deadline would have been in late February like it always is.
> 
> Finally, I must thank NESN's "Behind the B" series for showing me how trade deadline day works! Much of this is ripped right out of their trade deadline episode.

William LaJeunesse sat at his paper-covered desk (whoever said America was becoming a paperless society needed to come in here, the coach thought) and stared at his general manager. “No way.”

“Will, hear me out,” Pat MacGregor pleaded. Or, for anyone else it would be pleading. For Pat it was a statement.

“This guy's a one-trick pony,” Will insisted.

“No he isn't.”

“He can't score!”

“That's not true, and we don't need help scoring,” Pat said. “What's been killing us all year? What's our worst stat? Since day one.”

“The penalty kill,” Will said.

“Right.” Pat set his iPad down on the desk. “Bakstrom's a penalty killing machine. Nobody gets a PPG when he's on the ice. This guy's stoned Sidney Crosby— _Sidney Crosby_ _—_ on every attempt this year.”

Will's eyebrows rose involuntarily. Stopping Sidney Crosby from scoring in any situation was no easy feat.

“Take a look.” Pat pointed to the iPad.

Will looked at the screen. The numbers didn't lie. Niklas Bakstrom was one of the top penalty-killing defensemen in the Eastern Conference. And while he wasn't going to win any awards for scoring, he wasn't as terrible as Will had thought. “Why's Ottawa want to get rid of him?”

“They don't _want_ to. They've got young guys ready to move up.”

“What do they want from us?”

“They'll take Ken Davidson off our hands.”

Will looked up. “Really?” Ken Davidson had come with promise, but never delivered in his few seasons with Seattle.

Pat nodded. “Davy's been dead weight on the cap for two years. Saves us from having to put him on waivers.”

“And we've got no other options?”

“None that will shore up this hole in our PK," Pat said. "Look, I know you like utility guys who can score and defend and hit and whistle 'O Canada' through their noses while standing on their heads. But I'm telling you, we need Bakstrom. And you know it." _  
_

“Do it,” Will said.

Pat nodded and left the office.

.

.

.

Niklas Bakstrom had spent his entire 10-year NHL career on the Ottawa Senators' blue line. Originally drafted by the Boston Bruins in 1997, he had spent time in Boston's ECHL and AHL affiliates before he got shipped north of the border in a trade deadline deal in 2001. A year later, he found himself with the big club. Nik was an Ottawa native: his Finnish parents had emigrated to Ontario when he was two and he loved playing on his hometown team. Really, Nik's biggest complaint about his NHL career was that two other players shared his name, and they all frequently got mixed up.

Little did Nik know that on this Monday afternoon in February everything was about to change.

“You ready to start relaxing yet?” Nik's wife, Christine, asked, wrapping her arms around him from behind as he stood at the island in the kitchen.

“2:55, deadline's at three.” Nik turned around and draped his arms over Christine’s shoulders. “What are the odds of a call in the next five minutes?”

Christine stood on her tiptoes. “Kiss for luck?”

Nik threaded his fingers in his wife's black hair and tipped his head down to give her a deep, ligering kiss. Christine wasn't short, but she still had to stretch to kiss her 6' 4” husband. It drove Nik wild.

And then his phone rang.

“Don't answer it,” Christine mumbled against Nik's lips.

Nik let out a frustrated sigh, groped in his back pocket for his phone, and looked at the screen. His stomach dropped. “It's Bryan.”

“Murray?” Christine asked. Bryan Murray was the Senators' general manager.

“Yeah.” Nik answered the call. “I've got a pretty good guess what this is about, Bryan.”

“ _Hi Nik, I hope you're having a good day too. And you're headed to Seattle.”_

“Well, I was having a good day,” Nik said.

“Where?” Christine mouthed.

Nik held up his hand for silence. “When do I have to get there?”

“ _ASAP. They'd like you there for their practice tomorrow afternoon. They're playing Columbus Wednesday night. They're trying to get you a flight. You'll hear from them soon.”_

Nik's mind was already reeling with everything he had to accomplish in a few hours' time. “OK.”

“ _I know this isn't easy, Nik,”_ Bryan said. _“We didn't want to let you go any more than you want to leave, believe me. You've been a workhorse for us and we appreciate everything you've done. It's...well, it's a business, you know?”_

Nik did know. He hadn't been lying to himself that this wasn't a possibility. Ottawa had a few young defenseman ready to come up, and the team couldn't hold on to too many 34-year-olds when 24-year-olds were knocking at the door.

“I know,” Nik said. “I know. Thanks for everything, Bryan.”

“ _See you around the league, Nik.”_

“Where are you going?” Christine asked almost before Nik had lowered the phone from his ear.

“Seattle,” Nik said.

“Seattle?!”

“Yup.”

“That's out West!” Christine said in a hushed voice.

“Nothing gets by you, you know that?”

“Isn't Luukas out there?” Christine stepped back. Nik's younger brother, Luukas, was a winger in the Los Angeles Kings' system.

“When he's called up, he's in LA. Usually he's in New Hampshire with the Monarchs,” Nik answered.

“When do you have to be there?” Christine asked.

“Tomorrow at one.”

“That soon?”

“We need to tell the kids and I need to pack,” Nik responded.

Christine went about the house rounding up the four Bakstrom children.

“Dad, did you get traded?” Allen, Nik's only boy and oldest child at 10, asked as he wandered into the kitchen clutching his iPad.

“Put the iPad down,” Nik instructed.

Nik set the tablet on a chair. “Did you?”

“Are we getting ice cream?” Five-year-old Lisa bounded into the kitchen.

_ Might not be a bad idea,  _ Nik thought.

Christine came in carrying their youngest, three-year-old Anna, on her hip. Nine-year-old Rachel followed close behind.

“Daddy, what's wrong?” Anna asked, rubbing her eyes.  
  
Before Nik could say “Nothing’s wrong,” Allen bluntly informed his youngest sibling that their father had been traded from Ottawa. Anna proceeded to break down in tears.  
  
“Nice going, Allen,” Rachel shot at her brother. She looked back at Nik. “That's not what it is, right?”

“No, that's exactly what it is,” Nik said. There was no use sugar-coating it.

Lisa's face bunched up in confusion. “We're  _ not  _ getting ice cream?”

Allen didn't look upset at all. “Where?”

“Seattle,” Nik answered.

“Where's Seattle?” Anna sniffled.

Nik grabbed Christine's computer sitting on the island and pulled up a map of North America. “Seattle is...” he spun the screen around. “All the way over here.” He drew a line with his finger from Ottawa to the West Coast.

“That's in the States,” Rachel said quietly. “Are we going with you?”

“Not at first.” Nik shut the computer. “I need to be there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Daddy, will you read me more of Narnia before you go?” Lisa asked.

“If I'm not on an airplane, yes,” Nik promised. “I need to get ready.”

.

.

.

Bob Corcoran wore more than a few hats for the Seattle Raptors organization. He was a scout for the Western US and Canada and was also assistant director of hockey administration. This meant that if cell phones and computer screens caused brain cancer, Bob would be dead by now.

And he was, at least for the moment, in charge of getting the Raptors' trade deadline acquisitions to Seattle. Pat MacGregor had only made three deals this time around and just one of them was coming to the big club.

Bob dialed the number Pat MacGregor had given him and waited. After a few rings the number's owner picked up.  _ “Hello?” _

“Hey, Nik Bkastrom?”

“ _As far as I know.”_ Niklas Bakstrom's voice sounded echo-y, like he was on speaker.

“It's Bob Corcoran with the Raptors,” Bob introduced himself. “Got a few minutes?”

“ _Sure.”_ Bob heard a few noises of things being moved around. Nik was likely packing as many of his earthly possessions as he could fit in two suitcases.

“Well, we're trying to get you out here, and it looks like you're gonna have to red-eye it,” Bob started.

“ _Sounds like a great time,”_ Nik commented dryly.

Bob smiled a little. He already liked this guy. “I've got a couple options for you here. First one leaves at 9:00 tonight, which might be cutting it a little close for you, has a 2-hour layover in Toronto and gets you to Seattle at 2:00am Pacific time. That gives you a time to get some sleep before you show up at practice.”

“ _OK, what's the other?”_

“Option Two...” Bob scrolled down. “Leaving Ottawa at 12:37am, 45 minute connection in Winnipeg. You get to Seattle at 3:45am local.”

“ _Ah, how about the second one?”_ Nik said.

“12:37 out of Ottawa, done,” Bob began booking the flight. “I'll send you the confirmation email. We'll have a rental car waiting for you, and we've got you booked at the Northgate Extended Stay.”

“ _You guys sure know how to make a fellow feel welcome.”_

Bob laughed. “Uh, what number do you want?”

“ _Something wrong with my old one?”_

“70? It's Greg Borgstrom's.”

“ _OK, then. You got a 7?”_

“Yeah, sorry. That's Hank Sheridan.”

“ _Right. How about...72?”_

“72's retired; it's Darren Foulke's.”

“ _Pi-r-squared?”_

Bob laughed again. “Not sure how that would go over.”

“ _27?”_

“27, it's all yours.”

“ _Fabulous.”_

“Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the Raptors, Nik. Hope you have a good trip out here.”

“ _Thanks, me too. See you all when I get there, I guess.”_

.

.

.

At noon the next day Nik was three time zones away, fueled on two bottles of Pepsi Max, and ready for his first practice as a Seattle Raptor.

Walking into a room full of strangers had never been Nik's favorite thing to do, and he hadn't had to do it since making the cut with the Senators. Now he stood outside the dressing room door at Rand Morgan Arena, the Raptors' practice facility. He had already met Will LaJeunesse, Pat MacGregor, and a few of the other front office staff. But he hadn't met any of the guys he'd actually work with on a daily basis.

_ Do I knock?  _ Nik wondered. No, he didn't need to knock. That would just be silly.  _ Is anyone even here?  _ He couldn't hear anything behind the door. So the tall, lanky blond took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

“Hey, it's the new guy!”

The boisterous greeting hit Nik like a gust of wind in the face. Unsure of how to respond, he stood dumbly in the door. There were five other players in the room, none of them in hockey gear yet. One of them—Nik instantly recognized him as Hank Sheridan—stood up and walked over to Nik. “Hey, you must be Nik Bakstrom.”

Nik smiled and shook Hank's proffered hand. “I must be. Nice to meet you officially, Hank.” Having spent their entire careers in separate conferences, Nik and Hank had played against each other once a year and been on the 2009 All-Star team together but had never exchanged more than pleasantries. But Hank had been around long enough that even if you didn't know him personally, you knew his reputation as one of the best in game and out.

“Which one are you?” The player who had heralded Nik's entry, a dark-haired blue-eyed guy a few years younger than Nik, asked. Most likely in jest.

Nik narrowed his eyes. “You used to play for the Caps, didn't you?”

The player nodded. “I sure did.” He crossed the room to Nik. “Mikey Palmer.”

Nik shook Mikey's hand and nodded. He remembered Mikey from having played against him four times a year. The guy was a nasty player in the best sense of the word, and his words could pack as big a punch as his slap shot. “Nice to meet you, too. And I'm the one in Ottawa. Or...well, I was the one in Ottawa.”

“Yeah, I played with the one in Washington so I figured you weren't him.”

“Let's see here.” Hank looked around the room. “That's Stan Cibulka.”

A short, squat fellow to Nik's left raised his hand in greeting. “Bulk. Or Stan.”

“And that's Keller,” Hank went on. “He used to have a first name.”

“It was Tim,” Keller piped up from right next to Stan. He had smart aleck written all over him, Nik thought: Bright red hair and a wide, toothy grin. “Lost the first name somewhere along the way.”

“And that's Jones over there,” Hank said.

“My name's actually John Harris,” An unassuming-looking guy said from the back of the room. “But no one knows that anymore.”

“How'd you become Jones?” Nik asked.

“You know who John Paul Jones is?”

Nik shook his head.

“Oh. He was a US Navy captain. My middle name's Paul, so...” Jones shrugged. “Hank made it up.”

The door opened and hit Nik in the back. “Oh!” Someone exclaimed.

Hank peered around Nik's shoulder. “That's Ricky Traynor.”

“Yeah?” The voice from behind Nik sounded wary, like he was afraid of getting in trouble. “Oh. Is this the new guy?”

“Yes.” Nik turned around and offered his hand to a short, wiry kid who didn't look old enough to drive or strong enough to give a body check. “Nik Bakstrom. From Ottawa.”

Ricky shook Nik's hand. “Ricky Traynor. From Saskatoon.”

Nik had to mile. Ricky's un-selfconsciousness reminded him a little of Luukas.

“I think your stall's over there.” Hank pointed to Nik's left, to a stall with “NIKLAS BAKSTROM” on a red and silver plaque above it.

Ricky peered at the plaque. “Why's there no C in your name?”

“Someone at immigration was having a bad day,” Nik answered.

Hank chuckled. “Drop your stuff; I'll show you around.”

.

.

.

Three days later Nik was ready to play his first game in anything other than an Ottawa Senators sweater. He'd spent Wednesday’s game in the press box as was customary for traded players. It was generally best to watch your new team play first and get an idea of their style before the first game. But now Nik was in Raptors red and silver, a flying R on his chest and a new defense partner named Tim Keller on his left, ready to play.

Seattle's style was different from Ottawa's—not as fast and much more physical. The Raptors weren't going to beat you in a footrace, but they might throw you into the glass so hard you didn't have the energy for a footrace. It was a tough, no-nonsense, leave-the-women-and-children-home kind of game. Nik had a feeling he was going to love it if it didn't kill him first.

Nik took a pass from Stan Cibulka, noticed he didn't have a good line of sight to Vancouver's net, and sent the pass to Keller. Keller danced around for a little while before sending the puck back to Nik. Nik took a shot, missed wide, and intercepted the clearing attempt.  _ Not today, my fine fellow, not today. _

“Nik!” Nik heard Mark Shearer calling for the puck and sent it his way. Mark took a shot, Eddie Lack made the save, and Vancouver's Alexandre Burrows picked up the rebound. Keller tried to stop him but Burrows blasted over the blue line and into Seattle's zone on a breakaway.

Nik raced after the other player, desperately trying to pokecheck the puck away. He finally got close enough, reaching his stick around Burrows, but Burrows wouldn't let up.

Sadly for him Nik wasn't going to let up either. The newest Raptor kept hacking away until he finally broke up the attempt, sending the puck sailing uselessly across the zone.

And then Nik felt his feet swept out from under him and ended up on his back staring at the ceiling.

.

.

.

“...And Bakstrom's just not gonna quit,” Jake Wheeler commented from his perch high above ice level, bringing the game to the fans at home, “slashing away at Burrows' blade, Bakstrom finally gets the puck away and...oh!” 

The whistle blew and the game stopped while Niklas Bakstrom lay on the ice obviously struggling for breath.

“Bakstrom's hurt,” Don Obenshain said. Doc Richardson was walking quickly but carefully across the ice.

“And Tim Keller has taken exception...” Jake narrated as the Boeing Arena crowd roared and Keller and Burrows squared off at center ice. “Burrows knocks him down...but Keller's not having it!” Keller sprung right back off the ice and began pounding Burrows. “Tim Keller is beating Alexandre Burrows like a rented mule! 41 years old and age is just a number!”

Jake caught his color man's friendly exasperation out of the corner of his eye.

The linesman finally intervened and the two players went off to their respective penalty boxes, adjusting their sweaters and padding amidst stick taps from both benches and continuing cheers from the assembled fans. Nik was slowly getting to his feet, waving off Doc's attentions.

A replay showed up on the broadcasters' monitors. “Looks like...wow, looks like Burrows clipped him,” Don said

Jake watched again. Right as Nik broke up the breakaway Burrows ducked, sending Nik head over heels and landing hard on his back. “Was that a clip?” Jake asked.

“I don't know.” Don shook his head. “It was low, but they're not calling it a clip, at least not yet.” He paused and the video played again, this time from an overhead angle. “I can't really tell if that's a clip or just a low hip check.”

“Yeah, I can't either,” Jake agreed. “It's a late hit though; Bakstrom didn't have the puck.” He watched the hit again. “Did Burrows get him below the knee?”

“Doesn't look that way to me from here,” Don said.

Nik was now upright, hands on his knees and bent over. He waved off Doc's attention and stood for a few more seconds.

“Probably just got the wind knocked out of him,” Don observed.

.

.

.

Nik slowly straightened up and skated back to the Raptors' bench.

“You OK, Nicky B?” Mikey asked.

_ When did I become Nicky B?  _ Nik wondered dazedly. “I'm OK,” he said breathlessly. He leaned on the dasher while the last of his wind came back.

“ _Penalty to Vancouver Canucks Number 14, two minutes for clipping,”_ the referee announced to the cheers of the Boeing Arena faithful.

“Hey, welcome to Seattle, man!” Ricky crowed.

And then he gave Nik a resounding thump between the shoulders.

Nik doubled over on the dasher, struggling for air yet again.

Sandy reached over and thwacked Ricky across the helmet. “Moron.”

.

.

.

In the end, Nik only missed one shift and the Raptors won 4-1. It was an eventful, but not entirely unpleasant introduction to Seattle.

“Hey, man,” Keller said as he caught up to Nik in the players' parking lot. “How you feeling?”

“Oh, I'm fine now,” Nik said.

“You survived us and Vancouver,” Keller said with a smile. He never seemed to go anywhere without one of those. “Everything else is pretty easy after that.”

Nik looked across the parking lot. “I used to deal with the Habs all the time,” he said, unable to keep a little homesickness out of his voice. For the first time since he'd married Christine, Nik had no one waiting for him after a home game.

“Thanks.” Nik looked back at his new D partner. “For, you know...sticking up for me. After the hit.”

Tim shrugged. “You're a Raptor. We take care of our own.”

Nik blinked, a little taken aback at the statement.

“See you tomorrow, eh?” Tim said, starting off to his car.

Nik waved a hand in farewell. “Take it easy.”

“ _You're a Raptor. We take care of our own.”_

Nik could do a whole lot worse.

 

 


End file.
